Marital Rights
by Girlbird
Summary: "My treasures, and my rights of thee..." Lothíriel is more than eager to get to know her new husband, who remains a stranger, in every sense of the word, but Éomer King has other, more considerate ideas. How will these two well-intentioned but not-the-best-at-communicating royals come together as husband and wife? A new Lothíriel and Éomer story. Rated for mature content.
1. First Night

First Night

"You are tired, my lady," the King of Rohan said to his new wife, who was doing her best to hide her fatigue as the people feasted in celebration of their wedding. It had been a long day of ceremony and celebration, and despite her valiant effort, he could tell that she was weary. Now the night was drawing to a close. Éomer stood and on his cue, so did Lothíriel. The great hall of Meduseld grew quiet as Éomer raised his goblet to them.

"Our vows have been said, our hands bound, and our union properly feasted and celebrated," he announced with a smile. "On behalf of my wife and I, I thank you all. And now your queen and I shall retire."

Laughter and applause rang out, as well as more than a few suggestive comments regarding the wedding night. Éomer laughed in return and waved them off, although he felt his wife's eyes upon him, strange, arresting grey eyes that he could not quite bring himself to meet. Her hand felt very small in his as he led her out of the hall.

* * *

Lothíriel hid her smile of anticipation as her new husband led her away. She had heard of the Rohirric tradition of "a bedding" in which both groom and bride were carried up to bed by the guests and undressed and practically thrown in bed together, and had wondered with strange apprehension if such a tradition would be carried out on her wedding night, but it appeared that her husband had chosen not to honor the tradition. Perhaps it was out of concern for her, a foreigner, and a princess. Lothíriel did not know whether she was disappointed or relieved. The concept, while perhaps a bit barbaric, did seem to set aside the awkwardness of proceeding as strangers, since it forced both bride and groom to simply get on with it. It sounded rather deliciously fun to Lothíriel, used to such staid Gondorian propriety, as much as it rather shocked her and would surely be embarrassing.

But no matter. Here she was, wed to the most handsome man she had ever met. She had seen King Éomer a handful of times, once at Elessar's coronation and then at her cousin Faramir's wedding to Lady Éowyn, Éomer's sister, but they had only exchanged a few words on those occasions. Until she had arrived in Rohan the day before, he had been little more than a stranger. He was still a stranger. Her father and the King Elessar of Gondor had chosen this match for her, and she knew that she was very lucky to find her husband attractive. Not all women in arranged matches were so fortunate. What was more, he was noble, brave, a valiant and renowned warrior, and, from what her father had told her, a good man determined to rebuild his house and country. And here she was, suddenly a queen.

Shyly, she stole a glance at her husband as he led her down a corridor trimmed in gold and green and lit by horse-head sconces. Though Éomer had treated her with attentiveness and respect throughout the day, from the moment she had arrived at his side to exchange vows to the moment they had left the feast, he had been rather quiet. She had hoped they would quickly find topics to discuss and get to know one another, that a true rapport would begin to grow immediately. However, so far, he was as much a stranger to her as when she had first curtsied before him.

"Is it far?" she asked, meaning his chambers. Their chambers, now, should they decide to share a bed. Couples in Rohan might choose keep separate rooms or not, but Lothíriel hoped she would find a bedmate in her husband. After all, despite it being early fall, the night air was cold and despite the many fires and torches that were lit, the Golden Hall was drafty. She smiled to herself at the thought of Éomer's body next to hers.

"Far? No," Éomer said. "It is just here."

A guard stationed opened the door for them, and Éomer led her inside. She smiled in appreciation at the sight of thick golden furs serving as a rug and covering the bed. The room was simple, but elegant. A fire glowed in the hearth, and near it was a long upholstered seat with carved wooden feet. A small table in the corner served as a washstand and pitcher. A mirrored dressing table held her hairbrush, and her trunk of clothing had been brought in, laying to rest next to what she assumed was Éomer's. There was a writing desk and - there. She stopped in astonishment. Her writing tools had already been brought there, and a few small artifacts that spoke to her of home and the sea.

Éomer stepped forward and cleared his throat. "I am not much for writing letters, but I thought that you would want to write home often," he said. "I had the desk brought here as well as your things."

She glanced at him, suddenly overcome. "Thank you, your grace." She put a hand out and laid it upon his arm. "I am touched by your thoughtfulness."

He bowed his head. "This is your home now."

She smiled softly. "I guess that it is."

They stood staring at one another awkwardly for a moment before Éomer cleared his throat. "It has been a long day and an even longer evening. I will let you retire."

Lothíriel could barely process his words in time. She glanced up at him, startled. Did he mean to leave her alone? Before she could react, he bent to kiss her brow solemnly. "Goodnight, Lothíriel. Sleep well."

Her name sounded foreign on his lips. She closed her eyes as the door swung shut, suddenly very confused. She had imagined that they would go to bed together, and that their marital rights would be fulfilled. It seemed that it was not to be the case.

Lothíriel sat down at the little dressing table, completely baffled. Ought she have given him more indication of her willingness to lie with him? Should she have asked him to stay? Did he not wish to consummate this match with her, or did he simply think she would prefer to wait? Perhaps it was out of respect for her feelings as they were strangers. Or perhaps he found her repulsive. She wished for an explanation.

Taking down her ebony hair from the elaborate braided crown she had worn for her wedding, hair which she had naïvely hoped her husband would unbraid for her and run through his fingers, Lothíriel bit back sudden tears of fatigue and disappointment. So she was a wife but not in all senses of the word. And her new husband was more an enigma to her than ever.

—

[A/N: Poor Lothíriel…

She just wants to get laid…Who can blame her? ~ GB]


	2. Second Night

2\. Second Night

Lothíriel awoke to a young woman entering the chamber and tending to the fire. She sat up quickly, then groaned as her head was rather foggy. "Good morning."

The maid started and looked up at her, her eyes wide. She jumped to her feet and bobbed a hasty curtsy. "I'm sorry, your grace. I did not mean to wake you!" she stammered, looking down.

"It's alright," laughed Lothíriel, trying to reassure her, "I needed to be awoken and the fire needed to be lit." She smiled at the maid, who was little more than a girl. "What is your name, child?"

"Nelda," the girl murmured. She kept her eyes fixed at the floor, her hands buried in her skirts, and did not smile.

Lothíriel sighed, regarding Nelda with disappointment. It would take time to earn the trust of the people of Rohan. But oh, how she longed for another female to talk to. She had not brought ladies to accompany her nor even a maid of her own, not wishing to uproot others from their own homes. But now she regretted that decision. A trio of women had been assembled to help her prepare for the wedding the day before, and they had not spoken much either, although their eyes had been kind though curious.

"Well, Nelda," she said brightly, swinging her legs out of bed, "Is it you that have been sent to help me dress this morning?"

The girl nodded without a word.

"Have you ever helped a lady before?"

"The Lady Éowyn," murmured Nelda.

"Oh, how I wish she could be here," she murmured. Someone who knew Éomer personally, someone who could guide her into his heart and into the ways of Rohan. More than that, a friend.

The girl as she helped Lothíriel dress was quiet but not incapable or clumsy. However, when Lothíriel sat at the little dressing table to begin to do her hair, Nelda stared at her uncertainly. Lothíriel smiled reassuringly at her in the mirror. "Just do it the way you did the Lady Éowyn's."

Nelda nodded and picked up the brush with tentative hands.

"I am a woman of Rohan now, after all."

Lothíriel stared at her reflection in the mirror as Nelda helped her plait the sides of her hair back simply from her face, leaving the rest unbound. She was a lady of Rohan now. If only it was as easy as changing the way she wore her hair.

* * *

Éomer did not mean to leave his new wife alone the whole day, but he scarcely saw her until that evening, when they began the second night of marital feasting. He supposed that she had spent the day with her family, who would remain until the next day.

When Éomer did see her he was struck by the deliberate change in her appearance. Whereas before she had worn her hair in an elaborate braided style about her head, one he recognized from his time in Gondor as customary for noblewomen in that country, tonight she wore it loose, like a woman of Rohan. It was a pleasant change, he thought, noting the way the thick black waves of hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. A simple coronet that he recognized as having belonged to the last queen of Rohan adorned her brow.

Realizing he had been staring, Éomer cleared his throat. "Hello."

"Hello," she responded, and placed her hand in his offered one. "I trust your day was pleasant."

He affirmed this, and escorted her to their place at the high table. "And yours?"

"Very pleasant," she replied, "I did hope to see you sooner."

"I apologize," he said, "It was not my intention to leave you alone."

She regarded him with curious eyes. "I expect you were very busy with council matters and such things."

He nodded, suddenly very aware of the prying eyes of the guests at the feast. He cleared his throat. As he looked at the expectant faces of his friends and subjects, he began to feel slightly ill at ease, especially with Lothíriel beside him. After all this time he still felt like a fraud. He ought to say something of importance to begin this second night of marital feasting, but words of reverence or cleverness failed him. So he took the goblet before him and raised it high. "Please, my friends, eat!" he said loudly. "There will be time enough for speeches later once we are sufficiently fed and enough ale has been drunk."

A cheer rang out. Satisfied by the permission of their ruler, the crowd began to chatter and eat. Sitting down, Éomer smiled at the sight of his friend Éothain whispering intently in the ear of a pretty serving maid who looked ready to serve his friend far more than a goblet of ale. And it was about time, too, that his friend found some happiness, Éomer thought with appreciation. Éothain had returned from war a much more somber and brooding man than he had once been - and he was not the only man who had returned home irreversibly changed.

Remembering all too well the woman who sat next to him, he glanced at Lothíriel and caught her watching him. She smiled a bit sheepishly at being discovered but although her eyes flicked down for a moment, she then raised them once more to his and did not look away. He gestured to her untouched plate. "Eat. It will grow cold."

She regarded him for a moment longer, then the corners of her mouth deepened. "As you wish, my king."

They ate side by side for a time, neither speaking to one another. Lothíriel leaned over to chat softly to her father, who sat to her right, and Éomer was consumed by a lively conversation with her brother Amrothos, who had been quite forward in communicating to Éomer his brotherly protectiveness of Lothíriel. Éomer at first had not quite known what to think but now he was becoming quite fond of Imrahil's youngest son.

Lothíriel, tearing herself away from her father's ear, finally touched Éomer's arm softly to get his attention. "My King, I had hoped you might tell me a bit about what you like to do, when you have time to your leisure."

"What I like to do," he repeated, a bit at a loss. When did he have time to his leisure anymore? When had he ever had time to his leisure, save perhaps when he had been a young boy? "Well, when I have the time, I like to ride. Of course, the same is true for any Rohirrim." He trailed off, watching her face. She looked like she expected him to say more. "And I spend time in the training yard. I enjoy a good meal, and time with my friends and family."

"Those last are the best pleasures indeed," she said brightly, as if this satisfied her, although he had a sneaking suspicion that it did not. She came back at him quickly with another question, however. "Do you enjoy reading, or music, my lord king?"

He shrugged. "Music, well enough," he said, "As for reading, it is not that I cannot read at all, or that I am ignorant of important matters, but that I have never had the time for such pursuits when it comes to reading for pleasure. I have been away at war or protecting our borders for most of my life, since I was little more than a lad."

Her cheeks colored a bit. "Of course," she said quickly, "I can see that for a captain of the Third Marshall, reading would be an impractical pursuit indeed. But enjoyment of music is something we both share."

"Lothíriel plays the lute quite well," said Amrothos, who had apparently been listening. There was a sparkle in his eye as he leaned in. "You must hear her play and sing sometime, Éomer."

Lothíriel looked rather pained. "No, Amrothos..."

"She does, doesn't she, Erchirion?" Amrothos insisted, getting his brother's attention on his other side. Erchirion eagerly affirmed his sister's prowess. "In fact," Amrothos continued with a cheeky smile, "She did bring one to Rohan."

"She should play tonight!" Erchirion exclaimed, as if it was his own idea and not Amrothos,' "For the people."

"I am no great singer nor minstrel!" exclaimed Lothíriel, her cheeks now very red. "My lord King, forgive my brothers," she said quickly, a hand on Éomer's arm. "They jest, and it is not proper."

"We do not jest," interrupted Amrothos, "You are a marvelous musician, and what better way to send us off, after all?"

Éomer cleared his throat, watching the two brothers. He glanced at Imrahil, who had not said a word but was watching the exchange with piercing blue eyes. "What say you, my friend? Should your daughter play?"

Imrahil was silent for a time, assessing his daughter with a fond sort of sadness. "It would be a privilege to hear you play, my daughter, one last time before we take our leave."

Lothíriel raised her gaze to her father's, putting her hand in his and squeezing it. She looked suddenly very sorrowful, Éomer noticed. He lowered his gaze, reminded all the more that Lothíriel was leaving a great many things behind.

"Father, only for you. I would be glad to play for you one last time, with my lord King's permission," Lothíriel said, looking to Éomer. Éomer gave a nod of acquiescence.

The lute was sent for and a small seat brought out to the floor before the high table. Lothíriel, looking rather nervous, walked down to take her place upon it, and the lute placed in her hands. A hush of astonishment fell over the crowd, for this instrument was foreign and strange, and so was their queen. Lothíriel cleared her throat, looking out upon them. "My good people," she said, her voice wavering a bit before finding steadiness. "I beg your forgiveness, but tomorrow morn I bid farewell to my father and leave behind my station as Princess of Dol Amroth forever, and take up the mantle of queen. I wish to play a song for my father, and for all of you."

Éomer watched her, impressed. She had said very little up until now in terms of public address, but her bearing was strong and she spoke with grace. He eyed the crowd of people warily. They did not applaud, but they seemed to be willing to give her their attention.

Lothíriel closed her eyes and placed her hands on the strings of the instrument and plucked a few tentative chords. "Forgive me, for I find my hands are trembling," she said, and laughed a bit nervously. Then she began to play and sing, her eyes closed at first as if she was terrified to look at anyone.

It was a song in Elvish, haunting and repetitive, and seemed to Éomer both sorrowful and joyous. Her voice was surprising, not a pure and reedy flutelike sound but deep and rich and sometimes sweetly husky. As she sang, the eyes of every person in the Golden Hall were fixed upon Lothíriel and it was clear to Éomer that by their intent, rapt silence that all were enthralled by their new queen.

Éomer too was transfixed, so surprised by how the way her voice and playing made him feel. It tugged upon his heart in a way that he had not expected. Indeed, something had been stirring within him towards her that was entirely new. She was still a stranger, yes, but one that he was coming to admire, and one that he looked forward to getting to know. She was beautiful, with those strange grey eyes that unnerved him and that full mouth, and that glorious raven hair, but now he felt he had glimpsed a tiny bit of her soul.

As Lothíriel finished, her eyes still closed tightly, the crowd let the last notes linger for a heavy, wistful moment before bursting into cheers and applause. She opened her eyes, finally, and smiled at her subjects, and then up at her father and brothers, who were beaming.

Beside him, Imrahil let out a shaky breath. Éomer glanced at his friend and noticed there were tears in his eyes.

"Take care of her," Imrahil said, glancing at Éomer swiftly, "I beg you."

"I will," Éomer promised, putting a hand on his friend's arm and meeting his sapphire gaze with earnestness, "I give you my word. I will."

Imrahil gripped his arm in return. Then he smiled back his tears and applauded his daughter, who had stood and was smiling at her father tenderly. Then she turned her attention to Éomer, and swept a low curtsy.

Éomer stood and applauded her loudly, for it was the kingly thing to do, but also because he felt moved to do so. He came down from the high banquet table and took her hand and raised her from her deep curtsy, presenting her to the crowd. "Your queen!" he exclaimed, clapping once again, before escorting her back up to the banquet table. He hoped that in his eyes as Lothíriel searched them was kindness and pride.

Lothíriel's singing set forth the festivities for the evening and soon lively, far more raucous music filled the Golden Hall, and people danced. Lothíriel laughed and applauded the dancers, still quivering from her own performance. She had not expected to ever play her lute for the people of Rohan. She hoped it had not been untoward. But deep inside of her was a proud sort of pleasure, for she knew that many had been moved by her song, and most importantly, her father. And, she thought with a secret smile, she had felt Éomer's eyes lingering on her and thought she had detected his approval. She sincerely hoped she did not misread him.

Her unmarried brothers Amrothos and Erchirion were soon swept up into the merriment, while Elphir, who was long settled and wed with several children, sat deep in conversation with some Rohirrim lords. Imrahil too was occupied with lively conversation on his other side, so once again, Lothíriel was left with Éomer.

She smiled at her husband, happy all of a sudden, caught up by the joy that filled the hall. The feast the night before had also been full of music and dancing, but she had been too nervous and tired to really enjoy it. "Do you ever dance, my lord King?"

Éomer chuckled then. "No."

"Whyever not?" she asked, "I am sure you move well, and you clearly appreciate music."

"That may be," Éomer said, "But I have never learned the steps."

"Nor I," said Lothíriel, "That is, I do not know the steps of the dances of Rohan. I had hoped that you might teach me. But I guess I will have to watch and learn them as best I can, for -" she glanced sidelong at him, "I intend one day to dance with my husband."

"You may wait a long time," Éomer said after a pause, "I fear my dancing days are..." he trailed off, suddenly brooding. Lothíriel sat back in frustration. Would he really not make an effort? She could not stop herself from sighing, which appeared to bring Éomer back to the present. He looked at her and smiled kindly. He took her hand and kissed it. "But you should dance, if you wish to. By all means, Lothíriel. I wish for you to be happy."

Lothíriel nodded, her eyes fixed on her lap, biting back sudden tears. Éomer may have noticed, for he stood and clapped his hands, stopping the music. "Your queen wishes to learn a dance of Rohan," he proclaimed, "Perhaps the women here might lead her through a circle dance."

The crowd on the floor parted, and the women obeyed, rushing to the center. A younger woman with flaxen hair lead Lothíriel down onto the floor. She was ushered into in the middle of a chain, holding hands with a woman on either side of her. The music struck up and the chain began to move in a circle. Lothíriel felt foolish at first as she struggled to follow along with the foreign rhythms and steps, but soon found that the steps of the dance were merely repeated over and over again, and she picked them quickly. As she was swept up into the music, which swelled and grew in pace, she forgot her disappointment. How good it was to dance! And to laugh, share camaraderie with her subjects - that gave her hope! Her eyes met some of the other women in the dance, some whom she recognized by sight, and the eyes were warm and friendly. Perhaps she was not quite so alone as she had thought. Whatever Éomer's feelings were towards her, he did seem to have good instincts when it came to cheering her up.

When the music ended, the dancers applauded one another, and some even came to clasp her hands and offer their congratulations. Lothíriel, herself quite out of breath, thanked them profusely and made her way back up to her place beside Éomer. "Thank you for that," she said in his ear. "Truly."

Éomer gave a nod of acknowledgement and smiled at her kindly again. "It pleases me to see you happy. Whatever I can do to make you feel more at home, you need only ask."

Lothíriel sighed inwardly. It was the bland and proper thing for him to say. She wanted him to be candid with her and share his thoughts without her prompting. She wanted him to be improper. She wanted to laugh and joke with her husband, and share every thought. however small. She wanted to share intimacy with him, and not just the sort of intimacy that happened behind closed doors, but the visible intimacy between two kindred souls, that of mutual respect, trust, and each knowing the other person completely.

_Give it time_, she told herself, not for the first instance. _At least he is kind, and beloved of his people. You have something upon which to build._

When at last the time came for them to retire, Lothíriel held her breath, wondering if this night would be a repeat of the one before. Sure enough, she was disappointed but not exactly surprised as her husband led her to the chamber, kissed her brow chastely and bid her a quiet goodnight.

Lothíriel was almost too tired to care. She crawled into the bed and tucked the sheets and heavy bedfurs tightly about her, thinking of music, and the steps of the dance, and the fair-headed people of Rohan. They were a lively sort, when given the cause to celebrate. She smiled into her pillow, remembering that she had seemingly made a foray into their hearts today, however small. If only her husband too would bare a window into his heart, just a glimpse to sustain her until tomorrow. She thought of the way his smile, when he gave it freely, flashed across his face and changed his whole countenance. When this happened, it reminded Lothíriel of the way sunlight could change a whole landscape when it shone through suddenly on a cloudy day. Perhaps that smile was enough for now. She would try to earn another true smile from Éomer tomorrow, she thought, and rolled over, letting sleep claim her.

—-

[A/N: Valar be praised, the response has been lovely so far! I hope this next installment did not disappoint. It's good to be back. ~GB

_Nelda: Old English, of the elder tree.]_


	3. Third Day

3\. Third Day

"Goodbye, Father," Lothíriel whispered fiercely, embracing her father tightly. She was not ready for him to leave her alone in this place. She had not thought to be so deeply unsettled by her marriage. She had expected to feel more like a wife and a queen than she was by the time her family traveled back home. Indeed, her marriage was still not even properly sealed. She was a fraud, in a farce of a marriage.

"Farewell, my dearest," Imrahil murmured in her hair. "Know that I am proud."

She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears that threatened to flow and held him a little longer, willing him not to let go. But let go he did, with a great sigh, setting her away from him with a bracing, stern look that told her not to make a scene. "I love you, my daughter. Be strong and rule with grace."

"I will," Lothíriel whispered, scarcely able to look at him. He raised her chin and looked at her fiercely.

"You are a Princess of Dol Amroth and a Queen of Rohan. Never forget your lineage and what you were born to be."

"No, father," she said, "I won't forget."

With that, he mounted his horse, and she could see a muscle in his jaw working. It was hard for him to say goodbye to her, and she knew that he was hiding it as best he could.

Her three brothers were next. Each of them kissed her brow and said farewell, and said their goodbyes to Éomer as well, and then they were all gone, riding off with their company, swan banners flapping and fading into the mist that clung to the morning dew.

Lothíriel wrapped her arms around herself and stared off until they were out of sight. Then she turned without a word to her husband and went inside, for she knew that if she spoke a word, it would all be over and she would weep in front of him.

* * *

Éomer, in between the endless council meetings and desperate to escape the confines of Meduseld if only for an hour, found it necessary to return to his chambers in search of his riding gloves. Momentarily forgetting that these rooms were no longer his alone, he threw open the door and strode in.

But he stopped in his tracks, remembering himself. Lothíriel was at the window, and she had turned to face him, startled by his entrance. Her eyes were red from crying and tears still lingered on her cheeks, though she wiped them hurriedly. "My lord?"

He swallowed and cleared his throat, averting his gaze. He did not like to see her upset this way. He did not quite know why he suddenly felt a lump in his throat and that too bothered him. "Forgive me, I do not mean to - I am about to go for a ride and I just came in search of - my gloves," he stammered, not looking at her and rummaging around. Where had he left them?

"They are here, " Lothíriel said, going swiftly to the writing desk and picking the gloves up. He must have discarded them there. He had made a point to only enter the rooms at at time when he had been sure Lothíriel would not be there.

Lotheiriel handed them to him with a slight curtsy. "My lord king."

"Thank you," he said, taking the gloves, both amazed at how quickly she had found them and momentarily distracted by her curtsy, which he found a bit odd. She was his wife, and he did not expect her to be so formal. He looked at her, remembering that he had intruded upon her solitude. She would not be accustomed to seeing him at this time of day. "I should -"

"Ride," she finished solemnly, "It is a good day for it."

He nodded and practically fled, reflecting with chagrin on how clumsy and incoherent he had been. He could have offered her some words of comfort. Likely she wept because she missed her family. They had left that morning and he had seen how Lothíriel had clung to them, although she had put on a brave face. It could not be easy for her to leave them, to come to a strange land so far from home, and to wed a stranger.

It occurred to Éomer too late as he mounted his horse and rode out of Edoras that he might have asked Lothíriel to accompany him.

He vowed to do a better job of welcoming her and making her feel at home, although he knew not how. There were no others there whom he could think of that could guide her and help her adjust to her new life. He had no family to speak of, save Éowyn, who was far away in Ithilien and pregnant with Faramir's child. How he wished she could have been there to help welcome Lothíriel and help her adjust to life in Rohan, but it had been too dangerous for his sister to make the journey in her condition.

* * *

"You are quiet, my lady."

The words from her husband that evening startled Lothíriel. She raised her eyes to him. He was looking at her with a quizzical brow, and she suddenly felt very much assessed. She lowered her fork, which had been picking at her food seemingly of its own accord.

"Am I? Yes... I suppose I am." She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Forgive me."

"Forgive you? For what offense? I only remark on your silence because you are often so talkative at the table," Éomer noted.

She thought she detected a glimmer of amusement or even subtle teasing in his voice. She glanced at him, wondering if she was correct. She was. His brown eyes, usually so unreadable to her, crinkled slightly in the corners, betraying him. So he had noted her constant stream of questions the past two evenings.

"I only talk to fill the quiet," she shot back, then nearly clapped a hand over her mouth. She had not meant to speak so rudely. "Forgive me, my lord king, I should not spoken harshly."

He chuckled then, surprising her. "Éomer. And your words are justified. I am often quiet. I fear I have little gift for idle conversation."

_Idle conversation! _So that was what he thought of her questions. He thought her stupid and vapid, a silly girl interested in nothing but pleasure and frivolous things, when all she wished was to know her husband better, to find a way into his head and learn all she could about the man with whom she was to spend her life.

Lothíriel suddenly felt as if she might cry again. She had not expected to feel this alone after a few days as a wife and queen. And now she was afraid that her husband, whom she had first felt was so kind and attentive, was in fact condescending, boorish and rude behind the politeness he practiced. How she wished she could run away. But no, she was a queen, and still they were on display. These horrid feasts. How unnecessary. Surely two days of feasting was sufficient. When would they end?

But to cry again in front of her husband, who had just insulted her, would never do. She bit back the threatening tears sharply, took a sip of wine and smiled brightly. "Are these feasts to continue for many nights?"

He regarded her now with a curious look, as if he had seen through her attempts at hiding her feelings, but said nothing about it. Instead, he answered, "Traditionally, we feast for seven nights after a wedding. However, Rohan is still recovering from the great losses of the war, and so I have decided that three nights will do. I hope you do not mind," he added quickly.

She shook her head, feeling relieved, and also grudgingly impressed at his prudent decision to not be overly excessive in the cost of celebration, and to respect the struggles of his subjects. Their subjects. "So tomorrow, how will we dine?"

"Much more quietly, probably in private," he said, "I fear that life in Meduseld is often rather somber, and nothing much happens most of the time." He looked at her then and cocked his head. "But I do hope to bring a bit more warmth and merriment into these halls than they have lately held. Last night in particular was a welcome surprise. My uncle -"

He stopped, and seemed to decide not to continue. Lothíriel did not press the matter. She knew a little of the enchantment that had stolen Théoden's vitality and mind. She also knew about Éomer's parents, who had both died when he was still a boy. She had learned of their fates from letters she had exchanged with the lady Éowyn, and also of Théodred, whom she might have married instead, had he lived. Indeed, Éomer had known much sorrow, and for that Lothíriel was willing to forgive him quite a bit. However... should he make little effort in being a husband to her in more than just name...and would venture to belittle her, forgive him she could not.

"How did you dine, at home, in Dol Amroth?" Éomer asked suddenly, startling Lothíriel. She had not expected a question from this man who had until this moment showed such little interest in her. She smiled softly, setting aside her anger for the time being.

"Well, most of the time, quite simply. I shared meals with my family, and sometimes with our friends. We would have banquets on great occasions, of course, and even, in the summertime, before the corsairs threatened our shorelines, we would take picnics by the sea. Sometimes, we would boil shellfish in sandpits along the shore and have great feasts of them. Hundreds of people would partake in these feasts, dining beneath the stars. There would be music, and dancing, and later, when the feasting would subside, nothing but quiet murmurs of couples and friends and the sound of the waves..." she trailed off. _Home._

"Shellfish?" Éomer asked, looking confused.

"Mussels, clams, oysters, lobsters and crabs -" she stopped, as Éomer looked even more lost. She laughed in spite of herself. "Small creatures, some with legs and claws and some that just reside in shells. Some are quite monstrous, and others rather ordinary. I will send home for a book with drawings and show you. Perhaps one day we will journey there together." She bit her lip to soothe the sudden, sharp ache of longing for the sea. For her family.

"I am sorry, Lothíriel," Éomer said quietly, "I fear I have made you sad."

"I am not sad!" she protested, but it was in vain. Her long-withheld defenses crumbled, and she started to cry, turning her face away from him.

"You miss your home, and your family. It is only natural. I should not have made you speak of it."

"No," she said, wiping her tears quickly, "It does me good to speak of home. I am glad you asked." Indeed, it meant something to her that he had made an effort and showed an interest in her own life, even if he apparently did not find her conversation stimulating.

"Come, Lothíriel," he said, standing. As she had the past two nights, she followed his lead. "You should retire. There is no need to be here when you are feeling this way."

Lothíriel sighed inwardly and followed him obediently. On the one hand, she was relieved to not have to fake composure in front of everyone. On the other, she did not wish to retire alone, yet again, to the great, big, lonely bed that ought to be shared with her husband. But then again, she was not sure she would want to let him in her bed after this evening's conversation. So what would she do, if he decided that now it was time to consummate their union?

The question went unanswered, however, as Éomer made no move to suggest that he stay. This time, he did not linger even a moment after bringing her to their rooms. He kissed her brow at the doorway and bid her a quiet goodnight before slipping away to wherever it was he spent his nights. Lothíriel had given up wondering where - and with whom - he might lay down his head. If he had a mistress, he hid it well, but she somehow sensed that this was not the case. Perhaps he was the sort of man who preferred other men, but that she could not picture at all.

So she resigned herself to the fact that after this evening's exchange, he likely did not find her very interesting. Perhaps he did not even find her attractive. But surely he could do his duty even if this was the case. It would not be that hard for him to close his eyes and spill his seed within her.

But did she want him to merely make love to her out of duty? Not particularly. She had hoped for so much more from this match.

Yet her hopes were as of yet unanswered. Here she was, alone, and still a virgin, with not even that cursed, quiet maid to help her undress and braid her hair for the night, because she was supposed to be spending this night as the third night of celebration with her husband.

Instead, she would lie down by herself in the great big cold bed, and gaze up at the stone ceiling, tears rolling down her cheeks as she thought of embracing her father goodbye, and her brothers, and the sight of them riding away into the mist. How could she be left so alone? How could her husband, who was supposed to welcome her and make her a home here, seem so utterly unaware that having a bride involved more than a pat on the head and a gift or two? A wave of anger washed over as she tossed and turned. She deserved so much more than this.

* * *

[A/N: This is fun. Let's get these two talking … and bedded! ~ GB]


	4. Fourth Day

4\. Fourth Day

The next day found Lothíriel impatient and confused, at an utter loss for what she was meant to do with her days. If she was not to be included in ruling of any sort, which seemed to be the case, she ought to at least serve a function as Lady of the Golden Hall. However it seemed that no one paid her any mind at all, and there was nothing much to do for a household that seemed to run itself. After all, there had been no official lady of Meduseld since Théoden's wife died many years before. Lothíriel supposed that the Lady Éowyn must have taken up the mantle of lady, but what that required, she did not exactly know.

She supposed that she might at least write to her sister-in-law and ask her, if no one else could offer her any guidance. But a response might take weeks, and Lothíriel was impatient.

Lothíriel decided that if nothing else, she would wander about and meet those who served in all the areas of Meduseld, so that she might at least know their names and stations, and understand what systems were in place. Perhaps knowing the inner workings of Meduseld would help her find her place.

She tried her hand in the kitchens, whose staff were busy and full of laughter until their queen entered the room, at which point they become silent and stared at her as if in utter surprise to see her. While the cook was nothing if not deferential and polite, Lothíriel was made subtly to feel as if she was a hindrance, and she quickly took her leave, understanding that her presence was not needed or wanted.

Next, she met a businesslike woman named Hilma who seemed to be in charge of domestic servants, of whom there were but a few. The young maid Nelda was one, and there were several older women who did the cleaning and cared for laundry and linens and such, and a young man who served as messenger and covered many other duties. Lothíriel was unaccustomed to such a small household but was not exactly surprised given what she had seen of Meduseld so far. When Lothíriel asked Hilma if there was any area in which she saw need for improvement, the older woman shook her head. Lothíriel asked then if she was expected to help in any way, and the woman merely shrugged. Lothíriel sighed, feeling foolish, and informed the woman to let her know if there was anything she needed, and hurriedly made her way out of the Golden Hall, feeling that perhaps a walk in the fresh air would at least give her a pretense of occupation.

She made her way to the stables, thinking that perhaps a visit to her new filly - a wedding present from the King - was in order. If nothing else, in the horse she had at least one potential friend in Edoras.

* * *

In the stables, Éomer watched transfixed as the mare Léofa labored to birth her foal, a practiced groom at her side, watchful but not interfering. The mare had been covered by Firefoot, at Éomer's bidding. Léofa had bloodlines of the Mearas in her lineage and Éomer predicted a fine foal.

So far, a tiny hoof had appeared, encased in the birth sac. It might be some time laboring before another one appeared, and Léofa appeared to feel that it was time to rise to her feet and move about for a time.

Éomer smiled, moved, and leaned his arms over the stall door. He had seen many a horse being born but it never ceased to amaze him, how unfailingly and steadfastly these creatures worked to bring life into the world, and how their instincts kicked in and they knew just what to do. And how such a gift of life seemed so precious to him, now, given that not a year before, all life had seemed doomed to end or endure in shadow.

Footsteps down at the other end of the stables startled him and he looked up to see Lothíriel there. Though her face was in shadow, her body silhouetted from behind by the sunlight, there was no mistaking that dark hair and proud Númenorean bearing.

"Oh, my lord King!" she said, sounding surprised to see him.

Smiling, but not wanting to startle or frighten the mare as she lay in the straw, straining to deliver her foal, he put a finger to his lips and beckoned her over.

"Look," he whispered, when she joined him, gesturing into the stall, where Léofa had once again lay down, her contractions coming steadily.

"Oh," Lothíriel breathed, her eyes wide as she discovered the sight, "Is all well with the mare?"

"She will be alright," Éomer whispered back, "Her prize is nearly here."

Sure enough, another tiny leg and hoof had appeared, encased in the birth sac. The mother mare gave another heave and then there was a black head, and then a neck, and almost all at once, an entire tiny foal emerged, black as night, breaking through the birth sac and lying half in it in the straw. Mare and foal seemed comically astonished, as if neither quite knew what to do next.

"Black like its sire," Éomer murmured aloud, entirely pleased. He glanced at Lothíriel next to him. She had leaned her chin upon her arms on the stall door to watch the scene, her face aglow. He watched her for a moment, enjoying the way she seemed utterly enraptured, as if she had entirely forgotten he was there before her.

The mare now had begun to lick her foal's ears and head and Lothíriel let out a small sigh of awe or contentment. Éomer grinned. "Have you ever seen such a thing?" he said in her ear.

She looked up at him and shook her head, her grey eyes shining in a way that he had not yet seen them do. Éomer realized there were tears in them, but this time they were not tears of sorrow. He put a hand on her shoulder briefly, moved now by her reaction to a point of having no words himself, and together they watched as the foal began to struggle to rise up on its spindly legs.

Éomer tried to ignore the closeness of Lothíriel's body to his own and how warm it made him feel. Standing so near to her was more than pleasant. He had kept his distance from her out of respect, but she did not move away from him and had not shrugged off his hand when he had ventured to touch her just then. She never did, when he briefly touched her, but he wondered if that was because it had been instilled in her to accept whatever her husband might do or if it was because she liked it. He strongly hoped it was the latter.

He wanted to pull her close and press her to him and after all, why not? She was his wife. But he had promised himself to let her come to him, or at least wait until they both felt comfortable to broach the subject of marital intimacy. And he would wait, until it was the right time.

The foal and mare were now both on their feet, and all was well. Lothíriel glanced up at Éomer. "The sire is your stallion, Firefoot, is it not?"

"Yes," Éomer affirmed, impressed that she had guessed.

"A spitting image," Lothíriel remarked, grinning. "But for the white hindfeet."

It was true, Éomer noticed, looking at the white markings on the foal's hind legs. "Lucky," he said, "In Rohan we say that a horse with two white stockings is bound to bear its rider to good fortune."

Lothíriel's brow furrowed. "Is that so?" she asked, "How strange." She looked up at Éomer quickly, her eyes wide as if she feared he was offended. "But wonderful."

"I know not from whence the saying comes," Éomer admitted, "Firefoot has no white markings and yet it seems he has brought me to good fortune as well." He blushed and looked down at the ground, wondering if she had caught his implication, which had included her. It had come out without him meaning to.

She did not seem to notice, though, and began to wander down to the other end of the stables. "I meant to visit the horse you gifted me," she said over her shoulder, "Join me, if you please."

He followed readily, pleased that she had bothered to remember his wedding gift of the pale grey yearling filly. He had not known if she would appreciate the token or indeed, care at all for a horse, but it appeared that she did. This was well.

"_Mae govannen_," Lothíriel said softly to the horse, who snorted softly and put her nose over the stall door to greet her new mistress with curiosity. Lothíriel procured a carrot from somewhere within her skirts and offered it to the horse, and Éomer raised his eyebrows. _Full of surprises, this one, _Éomer thought.

"She is a pretty thing," Lothíriel said, scratching the horse's brow. She looked up at Éomer thoughtfully. "I never thanked you properly," she added, "The formal thanks I gave you after the ceremony was not adequate. I was lost for words, I confess. Thank you, my lord King."

Éomer snorted in spite of himself. _My lord King. _

Her brow furrowed. "Is something funny?" she asked, stepping away from the horse.

"No," he replied lightly. Her eyes narrowed, and he quickly caught himself and realized his mistake. "Err… well, yes. That is, you said the formal thank you was not adequate, and said you owed me a proper thank you, and then you gave me another thank you that was entirely formal."

She colored and lowered her eyes. "I see." She turned her attention back to the filly, and did not look at him any further.

Éomer kicked himself inwardly. _You dolt. _He sighed, wondering how to remedy this conversation.

Lothíriel after a time spoke again. "I never asked you if this filly had a name, my lord King."

"Éomer," he reminded quickly, "I have tried before to imply that you need not be so formal when you address me. I would prefer Éomer."

She nodded curtly. "As you wish."

Éomer felt his heart sink. Her countenance had changed utterly from when they were watching Léofa's foal being born, and now it was if a veil hung over it, shielding from him her true thoughts. Was this his doing?

He cleared his throat. "She does not have a name. It is your right to name her, Lothíriel, as her mistress. Is it alright, then, for me to call you by your name?"

Lothíriel nodded, her eyes cast downward. "You have called me by my name since we were wed. I have no objection."

At that, Éomer sighed. "No objection." He leaned his arms on the stall door and looked at her in frustration, mostly at himself, but also at her distant manner. "I have offended you, I think."

She raised her eyes to his and pursed her lips. "It is not that."

"What is it, then?" he asked in agitation, "You have been much quieter of late and now you are…" He searched for words, and came up short.

"Now I am… what?" she retorted, her hands coming to rest upon her hips in an attitude of challenge. "What is it that you want me to be, exactly? For I do not understand!"

"Now you are angry," Éomer remarked, utterly confused but no less impatient. "I do not know why and I would have you tell me!"

"I took last evening's remarks to mean that you find my conversation tedious and idle, but now you berate me for being too silent," Lothíriel exclaimed, "Which is it, my lord King?"

"Tedious and…? I do not understand, my _lady Queen_, what you mean." Éomer wracked his mind for what remarks she was referring to.

"No?" she replied softly, too softly. She stepped forward and looked him in the face. "You said that you have little gift for idle conversation. Was I wrong to take that as a dismissal? That you find my conversation insipid and dull?" Her eyes were afire in a way that alarmed him. "Perhaps it is you whom I should find tedious, and idle, since you rarely give me more than a few words of response to the questions I posed you!"

Éomer stared at her, astonished. "I am sorry, Lothíriel. I never meant to..." he paused, searching for words, for they did not come easily to him in the face of her glorious anger. As usual, she had rendered him incapable of stringing together an intelligent thought. Her cheeks had flushed and the snap in her eyes was more than a little appealing, even as he was ashamed of himself.

"Never meant to…?" Lothíriel prodded.

Unable to keep looking at her, his eyes sought another target as he continued,"I never meant to imply that I find you or your conversation tedious or stupid. I do not. Quite the opposite, in fact." He glanced sidelong at her to assess her reaction. She had softened visibly, and was listening and looking at him with those strange grey eyes. He sighed, speaking slowly in order to find the right words this time. "I only meant that I do not always find it easy to share my thoughts freely with others, at least at first."

"With a stranger, you mean," Lothiriel clarified, after a moment of regarding him thoughtfully, "You find it hard to talk openly to strangers."

"Well, yes," he said. It was not untrue. However, it was even more particularly difficult with _her_. How to explain to her that the way she looked at him made him feel as if his tongue had lost all capacity to form words. His words would never be good enough for her. He sighed.

Lothíriel took a deep breath then, as if taking this all in. She stepped still closer to him, so that she was standing as close to him as she had at the wedding during the handbinding ritual, and looked up at him solemnly. He could have easily taken her in his arms, had he felt a little braver.

"Éomer," she said, for what was the first time, and he closed his eyes briefly at the sweet sound of his name on her lips. "It is just that. We are strangers, but I would like not to be a stranger to you, or you to me. I asked those questions, perhaps in overeagerness, but in hopes that I might learn all there is to know about you, for you are my husband and I would like very much to know the man I married, and for him to know me. We were not granted the circumstances for a proper courtship, and so I fear we must try to understand one another as best we can to allow room for… other feelings to grow in time."

"That is wise," he said, his voice low, for her words had moved him, and he suddenly felt very foolish for not letting her know what was in his heart. He looked down at her - for as tall as she was she was still a head shorter - and noted the tendril of black hair that had fallen forward across her cheek. He reached down instinctively and brushed it away, his fingers briefly coming into contact with her cheekbone as he did so. Her lips twitched and parted at his touch and suddenly Éomer thought he would very much like to run his thumb over that suddenly trembling lower lip and then claim her mouth with his own, and he would have but for for the interruption of a voice calling his name.

"Éomer king!" said the unwelcome young messenger who had broken the spell, whom Éomer right then would have liked to knock to the ground for the interruption. "You are needed in Meduseld."

"Forgive me for taking my leave of you, my lady queen," he said regretfully, turning back to the woman whose mouth he yearned for, who was looking at him with that very mouth parted in some unnamed thought, "I hope I can dine with you this evening. I will come to your - our chambers when I can." He kicked himself for the stumble, for the young messenger was still standing by.

"As you wish," she replied, her stormy eyes, which had a moment before seemed to burn and glimmer, suddenly grown cloudy. She bowed her head to him and turned her attention back to the horse. Éomer left her there with sudden regret. There had been a real moment between them, and timing had not been their friend. What would it be like, to hold her in his arms? To kiss her mouth and behave as a true husband to her in more than just title?

But all that in time, he told himself. As she had said, they would make greater strides if they learned to communicate. And to do that required him unburdening his heart.

He had sworn to himself that he would let her lead - but, oh, how hard it was becoming to keep a distance, even as she set him off his guard the closer she came. He did not think now that she liked him very much. He hoped, sincerely hoped, that he could make amends.

* * *

[A/N: See, Éomer's just bad at talking to people, and Lothíriel in particular. That's ok. He has other qualities that will soon make up for it.

I guess Firefoot was probably grey like the other horses (and basically everything else in LotR save Tom Bombadil's yellow trousers - the Grey Havens, people's eyes, Arwen's mantle, everything!) , but I always picture him as a black stallion and you'll just have to forgive me. I watched lots of Youtube videos of horses giving birth, which was educational.

_Léofa_: Beloved (after **Brytta Léofa, 11th king of Rohan).**

_Hilma_: of Germanic origin meaning determined protector.]


	5. Fourth Night

4\. Fourth Night

Lothíriel closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the edge of the bathtub, reveling in the heat of the water as it soothed her sore muscles and, with less success, her heart. Éomer had not come to dine with her, for pressing council matters had detained him yet again - and that was yet another mounting frustration for her in that she had hoped to be involved in these matters as well, not kept in her chambers and brought out as a pretty ornament from time to time. She was a descendant of great rulers and she had been educated and brought up to lead in their example.

But all that in time, she told herself. Be patient and first, find a place in your husband's home and heart, and in the hearts of his people. Then you may find yourself in a better position to rule beside him.

But how to find that place, she thought with a sigh. Each step she made towards a rapport with her husband seemed so small. And opportunities for rapport were few, as she barely saw him. Earlier in the stables had been the lengthiest stretch of time they had spent together during the daytime. That, at least, had led to an honest conversation, and she was glad of it. Éomer had explained himself, and she knew now that he did not find her tedious, at least. And for the most fleeting and breathless moment, she had thought that he might kiss her, although the moment had been broken before it had begun.

She had wanted him to, she knew, thinking back to it. She had caught her breath and leaned in and the pit of her stomach had clenched in desire - desire that had not easily been stifled when he had been called away.

She was no stranger to desire, nor to her own pleasure at her own hands, though she had never gone so far as to lay with a man. Several dalliances had always stopped at a proper line of kissing. Now at the age of twenty-two she felt the pleasure of the marriage bed a thing long overdue her. And oh, would Éomer ever touch her? Would he satisfy her, and she him? Would he ever venture to find out?

She sighed in impatience, splashing the water a bit furiously and sat upright to finish her bath, but a knock on the door gave her pause. The maid Nelda had returned, she assumed. A quiet, frightened little thing, she thought, but not without kindness or the possibility for feminine kinship. At last, someone to talk to - or, at least, talk at.

"Enter," she said breezily, but it was Éomer who appeared in the doorway.

At the sight of her in the bath, he immediately cleared his throat and made to turn away. "Forgive me, I did not realize you were —."

"No, stay," she said quickly before she could stop herself and stood up in the bathtub with an undignified splash.

Face to face with her nakedness, he swiftly stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him, lest anyone walk by and see. "As you command," he said finally, the corners of his mouth deepening, "My lady."

She felt her cheeks flush as he looked upon her. She had half-expected him to look away, but he did not. Rather his eyes lingered on her body, and then traveled up to her face. Her cheeks flushed and she forced herself not to cover herself with her arms. Let him look. She was not unattractive. If he was nearly godlike in his handsomeness, she was thought at least adequately beautiful.

"Do you like what you see?" she asked tentatively.

He regarded her for an agonizing moment and she held her breath, trying to read his face. Slowly he reached over to the drying cloth that lay warming over a rack near the hearth and he held it out to her without a word.

She stared at the offering in frustration, then took it roughly from him, her cheeks now growing even hotter, but this time in embarrassment and shame.

She did not cover herself, however, watching him carefully. His eyes had lingered on her body, though now he looked down at the floor respectfully. She took a careful breath. "I had thought, perhaps, that you did not find me desirable, but I think that.. perhaps… you might after all."

He raised his eyes to hers, betraying a look of longing in them that gave her more than a little bit of hope. Finally he spoke. "Lothíriel, I... do not wish to pressure you or that you should feel sold to me as a piece of chattel for me to do with you as I will."

"Do I look as though I am unwilling?" she interrupted, dropping the cloth on the ground beside the bath and stepping out of the tub onto it, keenly aware of the droplets of water that trickled down her thighs and between her breasts and all over her skin. She was shivering, and yet she felt no cold.

His eyes crinkled in the corners then, as she had come to know they did when he was amused but did not want to show it outright. "No."

She sighed in frustration. "Then why do you keep your distance? I am your wife, and I have rights of you that I long to partake of, I confess. I desire to know my husband in every sense of the word. Instead I have been left alone each night, wondering why he does not come to my bed or, at least, venture to sleep in it, if he will not touch me."

He regarded her for a moment as if taking in this information. "Forgive me." His brow furrowed and he stepped closer to her, saying, "Forgive me, Lothíriel. I did not know you felt this way."

He stepped closer yet again, so close that Lothíriel felt her breath catch in her throat and chest, the heat of his body radiating out and causing her belly to clench in need. She swallowed, breathing in the scent of him, which was pleasant and masculine and utterly overwhelming to her senses. She raised her chin instinctively, wanting the kiss he had yet to bestow upon her, but Éomer broke the moment and bent towards the drying cloth beneath her feet.

"May I have this?" he asked, and wordlessly she nodded, stepping off it so that he might pick it up.

Deliberately, he took the drying cloth and, kneeling at her feet, began to dry her skin, astonishing her yet again. As he did so, he began to speak.

"You came to me a stranger from a great distance. I thought it best to wait and see what might grow between us. I thought you might want time to get to know me before -" his voice caught, "Before we lay together."

He was drying her legs now, and then her torso. Though his hands did not touch her skin, she was keenly aware of the pressure of them in each and every part of her he touched through the fabric. She watched him through half-closed eyes and realized that he knew exactly what he was doing. At one point his lips were an inch from her hip and she keenly felt the sensation of his breath upon her skin.

She bit back a surprised laugh at what she recognized as a new side of her husband. He was wickedly seducing her with this show of care, although his words were solemn and true. At long last, standing before her, he wrapped the drying cloth around her and put his hands on her hips, pulling her close. He met her eyes apologetically. "I never thought that I might be wrong. I see now that perhaps I should have explained myself to you, or asked of your opinion, and of what was in your heart regarding this match."

Lothíriel felt her body sing as he held her. Her own hands, still damp from the bath, went to meet his chest, gripping his tunic and pulling him close. She smiled at him, stupidly happy. "Yes, you should have."

"I am sorry. I meant it out of kindness. If I have hurt you or caused you doubt or pain, or made you feel the ache of loneliness, I beg your forgiveness," he said, searching her face as his hands came to cup her face carefully and intentionally.

At this touch, so tender and coaxing, she felt her body quake and release, tears flowing suddenly in a flood that she could not repress. She had not truly known how deeply she had been aching, not only for him but for tenderness and warmth. She had felt so alone, for so long, not just in Rohan, but in her life before _him_.

"Ah, my sweet," Éomer murmured, pulling her against him and cradling the back of her head with his hand as she wept. He kissed her head, and let her sob into his chest until the tears subsided.

"I'm sorry," she managed to say, at last when words returned to her. She raised her head to look at him through teary eyelashes, and he was smiling at her tenderly, letting her know without a word that he understood and that she need give no explanation.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Éomer said, his calloused thumb stroking her cheek, "It is I who neglected you and my duties. Forgive me, Lothíriel." He kissed her, then, at long last, his mouth falling upon hers like welcome rain on parched fields. "Forgive me." He kissed her again, deeper this time, simmering and coaxing and tugging upon the yearning and loneliness that had long choked her heart and belly. She moaned a little bit in longing and surprise and returned the kiss, the drying that had covered her falling forgotten to their feet.

When he drew away, they were both gasping for breath. His body pressed into hers and one hand drew her pelvis close against his. She felt the evidence of his desire beneath his clothing, and she gasped, pressing against it shamelessly. With a tremulous sigh he leaned his forehead upon her own, his other hand coming to caress her earlobe, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger in a very deliberate way.

"Is it evident now that I desire you?" he murmured, his eyes tender and somewhat amused, "That I want to be a husband to you properly?"

"Yes," she breathed, impatient now for more. She reached up and brought his head down towards hers. "Kiss me once more."

"As you command," he said, just as he had when he had shut the door, and complied, suddenly lifting her up so that her legs wrapped around him, his hands supporting her with ease, as he carried her to the great, big bed. He lay her down and laughed at her, for she was fumbling with his clothes, trying to tear them off him but a bit lost for how to do it.

"I've never undressed a man before," she protested at his obvious amusement as he drew away to strip off his tunic and shirt, "Well, not like this. I did undress a wounded man or two in the Houses of Healing but -"

He pressed his fingers to her lips, interrupting her. "Oh, by the _M__é__aras_, do you ever stop talking?" he exclaimed, but it was a kind of tender teasing and she laughed, suddenly very much reassured that he liked her, that he really did like her. Free of his garments, he crept over on top of her again, kissing her mouth thoroughly before making his way down her body. His beard tickled her and the sensation, coupled with the attention from his mouth on the tender areas of her neck and breasts, made her squirm a bit. It was almost enough that she could not stand it, and she realized that she was trembling in part from nervousness as well as anticipation. But when he knelt on the floor and pulled her hips to the edge of the bed, and shortly afterwards his determined lips and tongue found their destination between her legs, she forgot the pleasing discomfort and welcomed him readily.

Oh, oh, _oh -_ this was worth waiting for, she thought, as her legs began to shake and quiver in response to the mounting pleasure he was drawing out of her, pleasure she made known with moans and sighs that came out of her unbidden. It was almost too much to bear, but Éomer seemed to know when to draw back and soothe her for a moment with a softer touch, before returning to the firm, capable ministrations that brought her to the peak of her pleasure. She tangled her hand in his hair, the other one gripping the blankets beneath her, and pressed her sex up against his mouth, seeking her pleasure so wantonly that she would have blushed had any other thought but _this_ have room to enter her mind. Éomer held her firmly as she came, his mouth continuing his ministrations steadfastly until she had to push his head away. Her climax subsiding, she collapsed once more on the bed, her breathing ragged and her whole body utterly spent and aglow in pulsing warmth. She brought her hand to her mouth in wonder as to what had just happened, amazed that he had brought her such pleasure so quickly. Éomer, his head resting against her thigh, gazed up at her with warm, knowing brown eyes and she about melted as she looked down at him, at this man who was her husband.

Suddenly very moved, she reached down and caressed his cheek. "Éomer," she breathed, "You made me wait for this?" He laughed and kissed her inner thigh before moving her unceremoniously further back onto the bed and crawling up onto the bed with her, kissing her nose.

"It is good to wait," he said wickedly, gazing down at her with those warm brown eyes - eyes that had a bit of green in them, she realized hazily. She smiled happily and wrapped her arms around him, and he settled himself between her legs as if he just seemed to fit there, lying between them. How different was this Éomer from the man she had known the last few days, she remarked to herself. Still as tender and gentle with her as ever, but also bold and full of humor. _And oh, so adept at pleasure._

"Where ever did you learn to do that?" she asked, teasing him lightly.

His brow furrowed, as if he was suddenly worried, and he drew back a bit, taking her hand in his and kissing the palm. "Lothíriel, I — I would never," he began, looking down at her intently, even as he stumbled with the words. "There have been others, but not... not now. There are not and will never be others. I promise."

"Hush," she said lightly, deeply moved by his earnestness, "I know, Éomer." She wrapped her legs around him, very aware of his body responding to hers. She experimented with rocking her hips against his pelvis and grinned at the way his face showed the effects of that motion. "You are nearly thirty years old. I did not expect you to have been a virgin, even though I am one. The expectations placed upon those of my sex are…" she sighed, a bit heavily, "Not the same ones that are placed upon yours."

He propped himself up on his arms and looked down at her, tracing his hand down her body and over her hips. "A pity," he said, frowning, "For one as lovely and as passionate as you clearly are, doomed to wait for marriage and a bed that may or may not be satisfying."

"I am certain that you will satisfy me - indeed, you already have!" she giggled, lacing her fingers with his, and bringing them impulsively to her mouth to kiss them. _Capable fingers. _"Although I confess there is more I have yet to discover tonight about the marriage bed."

"Indeed, my sweet," he whispered, "And I confess I am a bit selfishly glad that I am the first to discover these things about _you_." He kissed her again, deeply, moving his body against hers, his tongue exploring her mouth. She thrust her hips against the ridge that pressed against her sex, wanting him to claim her and still very aware that he was still more fully clothed than she. "You are indeed a very eager virgin, I think," he teased pointedly.

She laughed and looked at him in frustration. "A very eager one, and one who is tired of being one!" she exclaimed pointedly as he reached down between her legs and traced her opening languidly with his fingers, exploring the slick wetness of her arousal and climax. How was he being so infuriatingly patient? She saw the effect she had on him, and knew he wanted her. Yet he only continued to tease her with his hand, and while it was very pleasant, she wanted much more.

"Oh, my sweet," he said, grinning wickedly, and slid a finger inside her, making her gasp, "I would say you were shameless, if I did not already know the truth. You are positively wanton."

"Éomer," she pleaded, and he only grinned up at her, pressing a teasing kiss upon her breast. "I want you to take me, please."

"I know." His smile was lazy as he tipped her chin upwards with his hand, giving his mouth better access to the tender places on her neck and at the crook of her jaw, while his other hand continued to pleasure her below.

She was moaning and quivering in pleasure, completely at his mercy but also thoroughly annoyed at his deliberate, agonizing teasing. "Warg."

"Now, now. Patience, sweet." Slowly he drew away, causing her to protest even more, and sat at the edge of the bed, removing his boots. He then stood and turned to face her, beginning to unlace his trousers, slowly and deliberately, watching her with eyes that smoldered. She watched him hungrily, staring at the way the line of dark hair on his belly, much darker than the hair on his head, led down to the waistband and beyond.

He grinned at her and slowly let the garment fall, bending to step out of it. He stood before her naked and her eyes widened at the sight of all of him. He was - there was no other word for it: big. _Illúvatar_, was it possible?

"You are staring, my love," Éomer remarked after a moment.

_My love. _It had slipped out of him unrealized, perhaps, but Lothíriel raised her eyes to him, brought back to reality by the word. He was grinning at her, his eyes brimming with amusement.

"I stare because I am not sure that _that _will fit!" she remarked, flushing bright red, and he laughed throatily.

"It will. I assure you, it will," He crawled up to kiss her and she received him, forgetting her trepidations and eagerly taking him in her arms and wrapping her legs around him too. "I will make sure you do not hurt too much," he said seriously in her ear, "I cannot promise it will not hurt at all, but I will do what I can."

"I want you," she said, her eyes filling with tears at his tenderness, "I am not afraid."

He kissed her deeply, stroking and pressing against her entrance with his arousal, just enough to tantalize her further — oh, was it even possible to make her want him even more, and yet, he did - and she moaned into in his mouth.

"Please, Éomer," she insisted, breaking away from his kiss, aching with a kind of need she had never felt so strongly, "Please, please, oh please."

His mouth on hers once more, and then he guided himself into her, and with a few gentle strokes, fully inside her, and while there was pressure, and a slight twinge of pain, the shocking hurt that had been spoken of behind closed doors was not there, only the new sensation of fullness, of connection, of _him_.

"Are you —" he began, and she nodded before he even finished the question, her eyes shining. Reassured, he began to move within her and she gasped, quickly growing accustomed to him. He was slow at first, and gentle, almost too gentle, and she gripped his shoulders and urged him with her hips that he could be less careful with her. He took the hint and began to thrust harder, deeper, stroking and pressing her within, and, oh, this felt so impossibly right.

"Ah, your cunt —" he growled in her ear, and she thrilled at the sound of the word, so foreign and forbidden and oh, so right coming out of his mouth.

"My cunt," she repeated, and he made a sound of approval, slowing down his rhythm. He kissed her mouth deeply and bit her lower lip, before moving his mouth to her neck and throat and chest. She moaned and bucked against him, wanting him to go faster again, but instead he reached down to stroke the tiny bundle of nerves that brought her so much pleasure, circling it with his fingers. There was a word for that part too, she knew, and wondered vaguely what he called it. Was it the same?

"My clit," she said wryly, watching his face, and he smiled.

"Yes."

_It was the same. _Her pleasure was mounting once more and she began to moan and thrust up against him and his hand and momentarily forgot her musings about names for body parts. Her fingernails dug into his back and her face contorted in pleasure, her legs shaking and toes pointing as he easily brought her to her peak once more.

"Éomer," she nearly screamed, and he groaned too as her cunt tightened around him in a final explosion of pleasure and he slowed down his thrusts to let her recover, which she did with tiny, helpless moans.

"There, my love," he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead and stroking her hair as the waves of bliss subsided and she returned to a place of being able to form thoughts.

When she was able to think again, and remember Éomer, she noticed his face had grown nearly desperate with need. Indeed, he had held off his own pleasure for so long so that she might have hers and she knew that it was becoming very hard for him to wait. She put a hand on his cheek. He turned his face to kiss her fingertips and then took one in his mouth, biting gently. She smiled, wrapping her legs around his waist and urging him to move again. "Take me harder, now."

"As you command," he said, and she smiled at the familiar statement as he complied, thrusting deep and hard within her, over and over again, so that she cried out unashamedly in pleasure. Éomer buried his face in her neck, stiffening and quickening his pace, and finally he groaned and had his release, warm and deep inside her. It was Lothíriel's turn to hold her husband as and tenderly stroke his hair, for suddenly in that particular moment he seemed to her wonderfully vulnerable and strangely fragile, utterly at her mercy.

"My love," she whispered in wonder.

He lay there for a time, unable to speak, and Lothíriel cradled him, her hands tracing lazy circles on his back, not caring that his weight nearly crushed her. At that moment, she felt she would have borne it for eternity, if he asked her to.

A few moments later, though, he lifted himself up off her and drew away, raking a ragged trail of kisses down the middle of her body to taste the sweat upon her skin. A final kiss to her navel and he got up, and Lothíriel's body keenly felt the lack of him. She watched him through half-closed, suddenly sleepy eyes as he went to the washstand and wet a cloth with water and cleaned himself, then returned to her. He wiped her thighs and between her legs tenderly, and she started at the feeling of the cold wet cloth.

"Cold," she murmured, and he chuckled.

"Sorry." He tossed the cloth away and kissed her deeply, a pleased groan of fulfillment escaping his mouth. "Ah, woman, you might be the death of me."

She smiled lazily through eyes that threatened to close. "I hope not."

"You are sleepy," Éomer remarked, his voice amused, "You know, we forgot the bathwater."

"Éomer!" Lothíriel's eyes flew open, "If the maid returns!"

"She will not return," Éomer said matter-of-factly, "She opened the door a little while ago and shut the door promptly and I doubt she will return for the rest of the night if ever again."

Lothíriel sat straight up, horrified. "She did not!"

"She did," affirmed Éomer, pulling her back down to him, "While you were in the throes of passion with my mouth here," he explained solemnly, sliding a hand between her legs. "I thought it best not to interrupt such a moment, and it seems she had the same thought, for which I for one am thankful."

Lothíriel clapped her hands over her mouth in disbelief. How would she ever face that quiet little thing again? And how could he be so nonchalant? She rolled away from him, too embarrassed to look at him any longer.

Éomer burst out laughing, long and loud, a strong arm snaking around her body and pulling her close to him. "My love. My love, I am only teasing. There was never any maid at the door, and never shall be, if I have anything to say about it."

She whirled to face him, her eyes murderous. "Éomer!"

He looked at her in open mirth. "You are very gullible, I am discovering," he said through his laughs, "Now, now, my sweet," he said, stopping her hand as it reached up to smack him, "Would it truly be so bad if a maid caught us in such a position? Indeed, I am guessing that half of Meduseld heard you, anyway."

Lothíriel gasped and assailed her fists upon him playfully, giggling as he flipped her over onto her back again and pinned her to the bed.

"You are horrible," she said, wrapping her legs about him firmly, "And I shall never forgive you."

His eyes crinkled in the corners. "Is that so?"

She raised her chin defiantly, even as she melted there beneath him at his warm gaze. "Yes."

"I think you might," Éomer said, and kissed her thoroughly, stopping her flood of protestations with his mouth upon hers.

It was sometime, thereafter, before either of them had reason or breath to speak again.

* * *

[A/N: I TOLD you Éomer had other qualities. O_O

I can't even. This chapter was WAY too fun to write. I was sitting in a Starbucks for half of it and just giggling to myself. And I'm obviously incredibly jealous of Lothíriel.

Anyway, thank you all so much for your support. The next chapter will probably be the last on this one, but we'll see. ~ GB]


	6. Eomer

6\. Éomer

Éomer, unaccustomed to sharing his bed with another, found himself lying awake in the dark early hours of the morning. Lothíriel had drifted off to sleep long before, nestled in the crook of his arm. Tired as he was, Éomer was content to gaze at her, sleeping so soundly, and marvel at how she had wound up next to him.

He still could not fathom that she was truly there. For many years he had believed that he would never take a wife. He thought he would die on the battlefield long before he had the occasion to do so. From the time he came of age, Rohan had been beset by strife and peril at its borders. It had been crumbling from within as Grima Wormtongue's influence over Théoden grew at Saruman's hand. Apart from one true sweetheart when he was little more than a lad, women had only served Éomer as comfort in times of need, dalliances that aided his spirits and distracted from the worst realities of war. There had not seemed much point in planning for a time of peace that seemed impossible. He had certainly never expected to become king - that had been Théodred's burden to bear, one his cousin had not always borne with total grace. All Éomer had known for so long was violence, struggle, duty, and fear… of those four, only duty remained.

It had been duty, not desire for love that had led Éomer to take Lothíriel for his wife. Still, from the minute he had laid eyes on her months before in Gondor, he had found himself harboring tender feelings towards her, feelings that had continued to twinge and deepen once they were wed. Unaccustomed to joy, and love, and hope, and even to the envisioning of a future, he had not known how to handle those deepening feelings, especially when she stood beside him as his wife, with her foreign ways and noble bearing, so proper and contained. He admitted to himself now that he had found her highly intimidating, he who was so seldom brought to his knees by any creature.

How different was that Lothíriel from the Lothíriel who slept now in his bed. He supposed now that the former was partly an act put on for the benefit of others, one cultivated through many years of practice. How lucky was he to get to witness the unpracticed side, the other version of her that perhaps she shared only behind closed doors or only revealed to others after learning to trust them. In that, he supposed she was a bit like himself.

She had astonished him when she stood up naked in the bath and commanded him to stay, and at first he had feared she did so out of duty. But when she had made it plain that she wanted him to stay because she desired him, he had been relieved, and more than a little had been told that a noblewoman in an arranged match would have been taught to tolerate him in her bed out of duty, and that she would likely be frightened of him on their wedding night. He understood that fear was possible, but the former idea had confused him. From what he knew from women, those other women who had shared his bed in the past, was that they enjoyed it as much as he did, and so why should a Gondorian princess be any different?

He grinned to himself. Well, she was different, he thought. _She_ was his wife, and how well they seemed to be matched when it came to sex. He was not naïve enough to think that all was perfectly well. There was still so much to learn about her, and so much farther to go before they had built a strong marriage. But what was important was that now they had finally _begun_. Somehow it seemed that making love had opened windows for each of them to peer into who the other was, and to trust in that person, and to celebrate what they had found. Indeed, he thought, it was as if Lothíriel had blossomed before him, and he before her.

What a mess Éomer might have made of things, had Lothíriel allowed him to go without touching her for weeks, or months, or however long it might have been before they became intimate.

He could not quite explain why, even to himself, but he had been so cautious not to offend her, not to scare her, not to ruin something that had yet to begin, that he had closed himself off from her. As he had finally revealed to her, he had never been one to open his heart freely, but with her he had found it difficult to even reveal a tiny piece of it. A coward, perhaps, or simply overwhelmed.

Now, however… now he felt his heart opening readily.

He shifted in the bed and tucked his body around hers, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her close. He breathed in the scent of her and felt his body release, drawn in to the warmth of her and the peace that lay therein.

"Éomer? Are you alright?" murmured Lothíriel, stirring.

He made a sound of affirmation. "More than alright," he whispered in her ear. "Go back to sleep, love."

She sighed and snuggled against him more firmly, "As you command," she responded with a sleepy smile present in her voice, and Éomer smiled too. All would be well.

* * *

[A/N: A brief chapter, but I wanted to wrap this story up with Éomer's reflections. I don't plan on continuing to explore this version of E & L, and it was only ever supposed to be about this early stage of their marriage. I'm overwhelmed, however, by the love and support you all have shown. This is one of my favorite things I've ever written. ~ GB ]


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